


Puppet Show

by Anonymous



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Control, Dehumanization, F/M, Forced Orgasm, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Obedience, Orgasm Control, Prostitution, Watersports, Winter Solider does not understand sex, m/m/f, mild infantilization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 21:29:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7454566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Asset, the Director, a private room, a perky hooker. Pierce has some fun with his little pet soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Puppet Show

            The mission wasn’t really explained, but the Asset could wait for specifics. It knew what it needed to, which was that a Commander had told him to wait here for the Director. It thought perhaps it was going to be punished more. Its lack of shirt seemed to suggest as much. The Commander had taken a baton to its back and thighs earlier. It was not told for what it was being punished, but it did not dare admit it couldn’t remember. Perhaps it wasn’t supposed to? In either case its back and legs throbbed.

            The door opens, and the Asset stands at perfect attention—and its posture was a matter of personal pride, not for this Director but for the one before, perhaps before that, the face was gone but the Asset could recall the hand on its chin, stern directions, flat strips of metal, electric crackles, laughter. Its posture was perfect. Even this Director has commented on it.

            Director Pierce enters with someone on his arm, no one who the Asset recognizes. She is shorter than he is, slender, not an agent it knows as she is too delicate to fight. She is accordingly barely clothed, her visible thighs making the Asset think briefly of being punished, her pink t-shirt barely covering her enormous breasts. It can see her nipples through the t-shirt. The thought makes its brain itch.

            Director Pierce unwinds his arm from the stranger’s and goes to sit down on the sofa across from the Asset. The Asset follows Pierce with its gaze, though the Director doesn’t acknowledge it. He sits down instead, arranging himself meticulously on the couch. He is wearing a three-piece suit, the Asset notes dully, and likewise does not wear any protective gear underneath. The Asset can tell with a look. The Director, then, does not suspect a threat.

            “What did you say your name was again, sweetheart?” Director Pierce asks, his eyes on the stranger, who is eyeing the Asset. The Asset isn’t on security duty, as far as it knows—it isn’t sure if it can look at her or if it should keep its eyes trained on the Director. The Director likes that, it knows. He opts to look down.

            “Miranda,” the stranger says, and her tone lilts in a way that makes the Asset think perhaps she was lying, or telling a joke. It doesn’t take its eyes off the floor.

            “Miranda,” Pierce answers, and he sounds like he was in on something too, but the Asset isn’t able to follow. It blinks hard. If it was supposed to know, it would have been told.

“ _Miranda_ ,” the Director continues, “this here is a dear friend of mine.”

            He is gesturing at the Asset, whose chest seems to flutter briefly. _Friend_. Друг. That doesn’t seem right. Machines cannot have friends, can they?

            “Hey,” Miranda says, with that lilt again. “You got a name, friend?”

            The Director chuckles. “Don’t worry about that, sweetheart,” he says, and the Asset chances a look up at him. He is sitting with his legs spread wide, his arms likewise thrust across the back of the sofa. He looks pleased.

            “Coulda figured,” says Miranda, eyeing the Asset again. It looks back down at its boots.

            “Take off your shoes, honey,” the Director says, and the Asset glances back up at him. He is looking at Miranda, who steps effortlessly out of her high heeled shoes. “Now can you help my friend here get undressed?”

            The Asset has seen the Director give other people orders before, but never without orders of its own. Miranda steps toward it, and the Asset looks up at Pierce again, helpless.

            “You stay still,” Pierce says, coldly. “Miranda, do me a favor and leave the mask on.”

            Miranda smiles and then her hands are on the Asset, working the button at the front of its pants. It twitches, hard, but remembers it had an order— _you stay still_ —and it forces itself to stay put as Miranda pulls down the zipper on its pants.

            “Jesus, is that—that like a fake arm or what?” Miranda asks, one hand, with fingernails painted bright yellow, coming briefly to rest on the Asset’s more enhanced arm.

            “Take the boots off,” the Director says, by way of answer.

            “Sir, yes, sir,” Miranda replies, and the Asset thinks despite her strangeness perhaps she is an agent, just a new one, and then she is bent over by the knees, balanced on her toes, working the laces of the Asset’s boots. The Asset can only barely feel her tugging the laces, and it realizes it can’t remember the last time it wasn’t wearing boots.

            They had to take them off before they put it away, but it could never remember that, only the distant impression of knife-like cold. Better not to think on that.

            It looks up from the shining red top of Miranda’s head to the Director, who is still sprawled back on the couch. His eyes are on Miranda, so the Asset drops its back to her as well.

            “Lift your foot,” she says, and the Asset does, and its first boot was pulled off. As Miranda sets the boot aside, the Asset lifts its other foot so she might repeat the action.

            “Stop.”

            Pierce’s voice is sudden, jarring, and though he doesn’t shout the Asset winces. In two sharp steps Pierce has crossed the room. He sets one hand on Miranda’s head—she is still knelt by the Asset’s feet—and uses the other to strike the Asset hard across the face.

            “You _do not_ ,” the Director says, shortly, icily, “move unless I tell you to.” The Director holds the Asset’s jaw in one hand, like the one before, or before before, who cared about its posture. His thumb and first finger dig hard into the Asset’s jaw, two more fingers pressing into the pulse point on the Asset’s throat. “Clear?”

            The Asset stares into Director Pierce’s eyes. It can’t nod—it was just told not to move without permission—though it knows the Director preferred it only speak when necessary.

            “Yes, sir,” it says, through the muzzle, and the Director lets go of its face.

            “And never speak unless spoken to,” the Director adds, and something twists briefly in the Asset’s stomach because it _hadn’t_. “Keep going, honey,” he tells Miranda, and returns to his seat.

            Miranda does, removing the second boot and then each sock underneath, curling her fingers around the Asset’s heel when she wants it to lift it foot. The first time, it stiffens, prepared for the Director to get angry again, but it would appear Miranda’s signals count as being told to, because the Director doesn’t object.

            Miranda stands back up, wobbling a little and catching herself on the Asset’s bare arm; it doesn’t react. She says, “Thanks, handsome,” and while the Asset knows the word ( _привлекательный_ _парень_ , someone had said, _handsome boy_ , back when the chair was shaped different, and a hand on his jaw back then, too, forcing his mouth open and pulling his head to the side, what for?), it stands out anyways, feels strange and wrong. _Thanks_ —what is it supposed to say to that?

            Miranda is bending down again, and a rush of cool air around its legs, its burning thighs, tells the Asset that she has taken its pants off. It waits again to be signaled to lift its legs, one at a time, until Miranda tosses the crumpled pants to the side.

            “Fold those, please, honey,” the Director says, and were it not for the _honey_ (мед?—surely no, surely милая, for, for, for affection?), the Asset might have thought the order was directed at itself. Miranda takes the pants and folds them, sloppily but well enough, and sets them down on the ground next to the Asset’s boots and socks. “Now the rest,” says Pierce, “and leave the mask.”

            The Asset cannot remember feeling so exposed, and were it not so accustomed to the cold it might have shivered. Miranda hooks both thumbs under the waistband of its underwear—and it could not remember ever putting those on, or being without them, but machines did not need to worry about their own maintenance. 

            Miranda’s yellow thumbnails slide over its hipbones and then down its legs, and again it is signaled to lift its feet so the underwear can be divested completely. It tries not to show its discomfort—it could think of no reason for this.

            “Take off your shirt,” the Director says, and the Asset knows this order has to be for Miranda, as it doesn’t have one. Perhaps Director Pierce remembers he wasn’t speaking with an agent, for he adds, “Won’t you, honey?”

            Miranda says “Sure thing, sir,” and wriggles out of her pink top. She wears nothing underneath, and both of her nipples, the Asset sees, are flanked on either side by tiny sparkling studs. It looks back up at the Director, unaccountably nervous. It can, after all, be sure she wasn’t armed.

            “Get him hard,” the Director says, “just your hands,” and before the Asset can wonder much what this means Miranda’s hand is on him, unaccountably colder than before, pulling at the flesh between his legs.

            “Don’t you _dare_ move,” the Director says, very quietly, and the Asset stares down to see Miranda’s hand closed around the base of its penis, and tugging, lazily but assuredly, downward, and then outward, and while she isn’t pressing or squeezing or hurting there’s an intensity to it, and the Asset’s heart is suddenly pounding in its chest, too hard, and that kind of heartrate usually means injury, but nothing is hurting now save the dull ache of its back from the baton. Far more urgent is the feeling at the bottom of its stomach, and in its penis as she steadily tugs, like an itch but more demanding, and it’s lucky the muzzle is hiding its face because it’s gritting its teeth helplessly, willing itself desperately not to react even as Miranda’s soft hands send clammy, squirming sensations through its belly, chest, legs—

            “Stop.” The Asset flinches, but it’s Miranda’s hand that stills. “Take off your shorts, sweetie,” the Director tells Miranda, and she does, with a “yes sir” still unaccountably lilting, and folds them next to the Asset’s clothes. The Asset is painfully aware of the swelling between its legs, which protrudes, lewdly, it thinks, as it stands where it was told to. “Panties too,” the Director adds, and Miranda steps out of her own underwear, her bare feet landing soundlessly on the floor as she does.

            Director Pierce looks very happy. The Asset feels as if its body is straining, an itch or a need to piss but something more. Its penis is cold and obtrusive. Miranda looks too bare, though the Asset knows it is naked as well. It could be happy they’re in this together, but its heart is in its throat, its entire body feeling too tight.

            “Alright,” the Director says, leaning forward, liking his lips. He looks intently at the two of them. “You,” he says, to the Asset, “get on your knees.”

            The Asset does so, immediately, its discomfort and bobbing penis unable to distract from the immediacy of a direct order. Its knees hit the floor hard, and some old instinct tells it to put its dangling arms behind its back. It thinks it might be about to piss.

            It hopes not. It knows this is bad behavior if it isn’t wearing its MAGs, and its not even wearing underwear.

            The Director must have said something, because Miranda is suddenly standing over it, and the Director says, “Go on, lick her.”

            The Asset’s neck twitches, aware it is wearing its muzzle, aware it is never, _ever_ to take its muzzle off. It cranes its neck between Miranda’s legs, and she giggles, says, “Is that thing _ribbed_?”

            The Director is laughing, though, and coming forward, and saying, “Oh, you—you sweet, stupid thing. Come here.”

            He sets his hand on the back of the Asset’s head, turns it so their eyes meet. Without anger, the Director pulls the muzzle from the Asset’s face, gently, and says, “There you go. Now,” he sets his hand back on the Asset’s head, and turns it so the Asset is looking between Miranda’s legs, which is paler than the rest of her and where the skin folds to protect something pink beneath. _половые губы_ , he thinks, distantly, _влагалище_.

            “Now,” says the Director, crouching down next to it, “you’re going to take your tongue,” and the Director’s thumb has found the corner of the Asset’s jaw, and he pushes, and the Asset obediently drops his mouth open, “and you’re going to lick her, aren’t you?”

            The Asset doesn’t move. The Director’s hand tightens on its head, in its hair. It nods.

            The Director lets go and straightens up. The Asset feels, rather than sees, him guide Miranda’s hand to the back of his head. “It won’t stop until it’s told to,” the Director says. The Asset sees his hand float into view and tap Miranda’s naked thigh. “Keep him hard.”

            The Director sits back down. Miranda’s smaller hand pulls the Asset’s head against her, and the skin is wiry and firm and brushes against its cheek, it does as it was told and begins to lick. The taste is sour and salty and it can’t remember the last time it ate anything, and the smell of her—which is sweeter, somehow, but the same—fills it with a heady rush, and down between its legs the insistent, warm tightness is renewed, and as it carries on it feels the cool underside of her bare foot come up and run against the bottom of its penis.

            The feeling is surging, twitchy, almost painful, and it keeps moving its tongue dutifully, and she presses her hand against the back of its head, then pulls its hair, maneuvers to spread her legs and settle over its face, her hand directing it and her foot routinely bobbing up to brush against its penis, to feign stepping down on it, to bat at it.

            Its stomach feels strange, and its heart is going too fast, and as it continues to lick the soft, hot skin pressed against its face its mouth seems to water. Her foot is softer than most things it touches, somehow, and as she guides its head and its jaw begins to ache a strange bubbling warmness originates in its groin and fills him up. It is nearly sure it will piss now, but it’s not that, it’s more solid, more pleasant, even. It doesn’t want it to stop, though the insistence reminds it of pain.

            _Order through pain_. Maybe this is supposed to happen.

            It loses track of time, but suddenly the hand on the back of his head becomes even more insistent, and the thighs around its head clamp hard and it feels a moment of fear ( _черная вдова?_ ), then its nose is crushed up against Miranda’s skin and it keeps its pace, keeps licking, and then Miranda shudders like she’s going into shock and something warm is rushing over the Asset’s chin.

            Miranda’s thighs loosen, and as she pulls away the Asset follows, still working its jaw, and the Director chuckles, sounds almost—fond?—and says “Stop now,” in a tone that the Asset knows means an order. It goes still. It misses the warmth around its face and torso and the consistent attention to its groin.

 

            After the perky little hooker had come messily under the soldier’s stupefied, robotic attention, Pierce crooks his finger so she’ll step away. She does so, dizzy and grinning dazedly, likely still believing the solider is in on this, that this is some remarkably well rehearsed little S&M game they play, that the metal hand with which Pierce is considering having the soldier fuck her is just a prop, that afterwards the Winter Solider with put on some civilian clothes and drive home to his apartment.

            This thought calls to mind a cool, clear memory of three winters prior, when Pierce had shuttled the blinking, befuddled solider into his car, driven him all the way back to his house in Georgetown, and led the soldier loose in his kitchen. He hadn’t given instructions, enjoying the way the soldier stood, poised, nearly nervous, entirely at his beck and call.

            He’d used the soldier like furniture that night, stripped him of everything but his muzzle and done a crossword on the soldier’s ropy, keloided back while he fucked him in front of the Redskins game. Afterwards, he’d asked for a mission report.

            The memory has the tightness in his exquisite Hugo Boss shark-grey pants becoming unbearable, and he beckons the perky little whore over and had her take off his pants. He enjoys the way her shameless, heavy tits drag across the fabric, then his legs. She’s sucking him off in no time, and he fixes his eyes on the soldier, who is still kneeling on the floor, his mouth wet and red and hanging open, his eyes fixed on nothing, his long-neglected cock protruding and dribbling obscenely onto the floor.

            Pierce chuckles, the sound drawing out a little as little Miranda demonstrated that she’s a better deep throater than the solider ever was.

            “Come here, you,” he says, and the solider staggers to his feet and wobbles over to Pierce, his cheeks pink and his mouth and chin gleaming wet and his cock helplessly leading the way. Pierce reaches out and grabs it, pulls hard to bring the soldier closer, yanking the soldier’s prick like a leash. The solider yelps, staggers closer, his helpless little face screwing up. “Mission report,” says Pierce, and the look on the pitiful soldier’s face is better than the way Miranda swallows him like she was born for it.

            “Is,” the solider begins, sweet stupid animal, staring down helplessly as Pierce’s hand begins working its way with agonizing slowness up and down his cock, “is—mission—”

            “Mission report,” Pierce repeats, his free hand curling in Miranda’s hair to direct her up and down his shaft, “ _now_.”  

            The soldier’s mouth face opens and closes several times, and Pierce enjoys the bit of drool that’s found its way, unbidden, to the soldier’s chin. Stupid little weapon.

            “Ob—objective—was, was.” The soldier can’t think—which is good. It’s just that it’s so fun to watch him try. “Pov _—_ _povrezhdeniye_ ,” he chokes, after a moment, “ _ov—_ ”

            “English,” growls Pierce, digging his thumbnail just for a moment into the soldier’s pink wet slit. He yelps again.

            “Damage,” he gasps, “injury. In field.”

            “Oh really?” Piece chuckles, feeling avuncular, as he slows his hand down even more and the soldier’s fried up little brain tries to find the words.

            The solider gestures helplessly down at his cock, which looks diseased it’s so red and strained, and Pierce drops it at once. The soldier gasps, and jerks forward minutely.

            “Oh,” says Pierce, grinning now, “you want me to touch it? I thought it was injured.”

            “Is,” the solider shakes his head, “is—need to, to. _S-ssat’_ —piss. Hard.”

            “No,” says Pierce, at once, still smiling, “you sweet stupid thing, you don’t need to piss.” He starts jerking the solider off again, more smoothly this time, and the soldier’s face blossums in confusion. “This feels _good_. You remember what that sadist Rumlow did to you before? You still feel your back hurting? Don’t just nod when you talk to me, ugly little thing, speak.”

            “ _Da_ —yes. Punishment.” The soldier’s eyes were fixed on Pierce, his wet mouth dangling open now, his lips and thighs moving minutely to ask for more.

            “You’re a greedy little whore, aren’t you,” Pierce mused, his hand still in Miranda’s hair, his thumb slipping indulgently over the head of the soldier’s miserable cock, “you love this? Tell me how it feels, that’s an order.”

            “Like—like to piss. More.”

            “You want more?”

            “More?”

            Pierce laughed, squeezing the soldier’s cock and dropping it again. “Isn’t it good to be a good boy?” he asks, while the soldier gapes, his real hand twitching, his cock drooling. This man toppled two sovereign nations in the space of a week a few decades ago, but before Pierce, he’s a whining animal, dumb and desperate. 

             Miranda swallows again, and Pierce comes down her throat, drags his cock over her lips so she feels her own spit on her face. He keeps his hand on her head, to keep her where she is. Such a nice girl, Miranda.

            He looks up at the soldier’s pinched, pink face again. “Do you like to be good?” he asks, lazily, as he runs a finger up the soldier’s shaft, feather-light, making the soldier shiver and twitch and moan without knowing it. “You do, don’t you?”

            The solider whispers, “Yessir,” sounding strangled, and Pierce seizes his cock properly, jerks him hard once, twice, and then smiles as the soldier’s eyes roll to the back of his head and he doubles over, lets out an obscene moan, coming over Pierce’s legs and Miranda’s hair. Pierce considers making him lick the mess up, but enjoys the way he’s shuddering, how bare and pitiful he looks.

            He drops the soldier’s red prick and watches as his face contorts in confusion, his hand pawing uselessly at his crotch. Pierce holds Miranda’s head firm and gestures the soldier’s abandoned vest, under which he knows is a pistol.

            The solider, recognizing an order even out of his head as he is, staggers over and picks it up. Pierce beckons him back.

            “Shoot her in the head,” he says, letting go of her and standing up and stepping away in one smooth motion.

            Miranda’s head darts up. “What th—”

            Her brains splatter Pierce’s chair, and his exquisite Hugo Boss shark-grey pants. The soldier stares, still naked, piss dribbling down his legs, as though he can’t believe he obeyed such an order.

            The ugly little child _wet_ himself. Pierce laughs. More to lick up, perhaps.

            “Doesn’t it feel good to be a good soldier?” he says, still without his pants but smiling at the solider, who is naked and drenched in his own piss and come, who is still holding the gun straight out and whose face is pink and glazed and pathetic. Pierce shakes his head and retrieves new boxers and pants from where they’re folded in by the door. “I _said_ ,” he says, letting a threatening note flit into his voice, thinking idly of all the pain he could cause his little pet just now, “doesn’t it feel good to be a good soldier?”

            “Yes, sir,” the soldier says, finally lifting his head and staring at Pierce with blank eyes. Loyal to the end.

            “Yes sir, what?”

            “Yes, sir,” the soldier repeats, mouth still the sweetest red, “it feels good to be a good soldier.” 


End file.
